Clang—clang—clang!!
The instant spear met sword, the shriek of metal-on-metal ripped through the air. Sparks burst like fireworks, and the shockwaves came in rapid succession—miniature sonic booms rolling outward. Wind-blades raised by the clash skinned the ground with casual ease, and even the trees nearby were sliced apart, trunks splitting and splintering as if struck by invisible razors.
This was no longer a probing exchange.
This was a duel that didn't belong to the modern era—or even the age of recent mystery—something that could only exist in distant myth, where warriors fought with bodies and weapons that mocked reality.
For any magus witnessing it firsthand, the spectacle was simply… too unreal.
…
So that's the First Warrior of the Fianna…
Inside the castle, Bedivere watched Diarmuid's near-inhuman technique through the familiar's relayed vision, and a sincere admiration rose unbidden in his chest.
To be able to move like that… Even Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain would struggle to claim an advantage here…
A level of skill that could truly be called peerless—an art honed to the point of "endless martial refinement." Bedivere knew, with painful clarity, that his own swordsmanship could not match Diarmuid's.
The Fianna of Celtic legend…
To produce a warrior so formidable, so fiercely brilliant, made him think—without meaning to—of the Round Table. Back then, they too had comrades with skill like this.
And yet…
In the end, everything had fallen apart all the same.
"This… is what a full-power battle between Saber and Lancer looks like?"
Irisviel murmured in awe.
Saber had escorted her back into the castle and then stepped out alone to meet the challenge. Now, through the familiar's eyes, she watched a fight in which neither side left anything unspent—and the sheer intensity shook her to the core.
Compared to the first night—when Saber's clash with Archer had erupted too suddenly for her to witness—this battle, happening right at their doorstep, felt even more overwhelming.
She clenched her fist unconsciously, as if willing strength into him.
"Please… win, Saber…"
…
"This is… a Servant's true battle…"
On the ridge, Waver stared through binoculars, stunned into reverence.
Only now did he understand: last night's skirmishes had been testing the waters.
This—this was the real thing. A fight that would decide not just pride, but life and death.
As a modern human, watching that level of destruction unfold so casually filled him with a deep, humiliating sense of futility.
The gap was too large.
He'd always known there was an insurmountable divide between modern magi and the heroes and sorcerers of the Age of Gods—but seeing it with his own eyes made him realize his imagination had still been naïve.
This wasn't a "gap."
It was a chasm between worlds.
If no one had told him the truth beforehand, he might have mistaken these beings for gods walking the earth.
And in that moment, Waver finally understood why the usually arrogant Kayneth had become so cautious this time. Cooperating with Waver. Hiding his workshop among civilians. Planning ambushes. None of it fit his habitual style—yet he used all of it without hesitation.
Because Kayneth had already seen the battlefield for what it was: the moment Servants entered the equation, a modern magus's superiority complex shattered into dust. If you wanted to win—if you wanted to live—then you could not hold back, and you could not afford scruples.
Kayneth's earlier warning echoed in Waver's mind.
"Waver, my foolish student… dragging you into this war is cruel. But I will not apologize, and I will not regret it—because like the fate awaiting me, this Holy Grail War is a fate you cannot avoid."
"This is not a contest of magecraft," Kayneth had said solemnly before they set out. "If you want victory—if you want to survive—then you must be willing to do whatever it takes."
"So I want you to abandon that half-baked 'magus' mindset. Face this seriously. Break through fate with me, win, and live."
"And wasn't it your dream to prove your so-called 'theory of mediocrity'? This war is your chance."
"Your paper is in the drawer of my office desk. If we return alive, I will publish it in the name of El-Melloi."
"And if we die here… then it will become our relic—nonsense left behind by a dead student—and it will be buried beneath the dust of history."
"Do you understand?"
Remembering those words now, something inside Waver finally clicked into place. He lifted his head and stole a glance at Kayneth.
But Kayneth had no mind to spare for Waver's awakening. His gaze remained locked on the battlefield below, calculations running as he deduced Saber's Master's likely position—and the best possible timing for their move.
Waver felt an inexplicable sting of disappointment… but he swallowed it.
He knew Kayneth was doing the right thing. He knew he was, at best, an extra—someone who couldn't help much.
Even so, now that he understood, Waver made a decision.
He refused to be dead weight.
He would find a role in this war. He would prove his will to Kayneth—make him acknowledge it, willingly, at last.
A different flame lit in his eyes.
"Now that's a good look," Iskandar said with a pleased smile, having noticed it.
He understood what it meant: the beginning of awakening. After seeing how cruel war truly was, and how vast the distance between himself and real geniuses could be, his dream-chasing partner was finally beginning to grow up.
It was a good start.
"Kayneth," Iskandar asked casually a moment later, "you're not one of the Three Knight Classes. If it came down to a frontal clash, could you take Saber and Lancer head-on?"
"In pure close-quarters blade work, I'm not their equal," Iskandar answered frankly. "But in terms of overall power, I won't lose to anyone."
"Though… neither of them has used their trump card yet."
"You mean their Noble Phantasms." Kayneth nodded once, then looked back toward the Einzbern castle.
"Then the plan remains unchanged."
After a brief pause, his tone hardened.
"But this time, we must succeed in one decisive push. If we encounter interference, Rider—do not hold back."
"Even if you must use your Noble Phantasm, end it in one stroke. Understood?"
Iskandar was silent for a beat.
Then he nodded.
"…Understood."
…
Meanwhile, the clash of spear and sword still raged without pause.
Sparks continued to erupt, and the metallic shriek never left the air.
Troublesome…
Even Saber couldn't help thinking it as he fought.
From the outside, the duel looked evenly matched. But Saber knew the truth—
He was the one being pressured, inch by inch.
Not in raw power, but in technique and tempo.
As Lancer, Diarmuid's speed was simply too great. In short-range close combat, Saber couldn't seize an advantage. Worse—Saber's weapon, the Star-forged Holy Sword, was wrapped in an outer layer of Noble Phantasm-like wind: a blue-green gale that reinforced every swing.
And yet that gale was being erased.
Every time his wind met the crimson spear in Diarmuid's hand, the magic dispersed instantly—as if cut from existence.
That spear was clearly imbued with a "dispel" property, something that destroyed magecraft on contact.
—Gáe Dearg, the Red Rose of Broken Spells.
The weapon Diarmuid held now was the Noble Phantasm he carried as Lancer in this summoning—one of his "always active" armaments.
A gift from his foster father, the love god Aengus, it nullified defenses formed of magical energy. It didn't require a True Name release; it functioned continuously. Against armor woven from mana, it was especially lethal—so much so that among Servants it could be considered a "Noble Phantasm killer."
Compared to his other spear—one that relied heavily on surprise and, once revealed, became far harder to leverage—
—Gáe Buidhe, the Yellow Rose of Mortality.
Against a foe like Arthur, if he meant to fight at full strength, the red spear was the correct choice.
And there was another problem: the yellow spear's curse still tightly shackled an Assassin lurking somewhere out there. If Saber were to cut it down in the middle of battle, it might release an even greater threat.
So Diarmuid intended no more concealment.
He would use everything he had.
And with the red spear breaking Saber's wind-based reinforcement, even Arthur found himself—rarely—being pushed back in close quarters.
Diarmuid…
Saber felt the weight of it.
A truly formidable hero.
As the fight grew more intense, his heart grew heavier.
"What is it, Arthur?"
Diarmuid's voice carried over the clash as he pressed forward like a storm.
"Are you still not going to show me your real strength? If you only defend, you'll never defeat me!"
"Don't disgrace the name of Saber!"
Saber's eyes flicked—just once—toward Diarmuid's other weapon.
A crimson blade that radiated power not inferior to a holy sword.
Its True Name was:
—Moralltach, the Great Fury.
In Celtic myth, the sea god Manannán—lord of oceans and the Otherworld—gifted it to Aengus, who then bestowed it upon his foster son Diarmuid as his greatest weapon. Like its counterpart, the lesser fury, it was one of Diarmuid's signature arms—only this blade was the stronger of the two.
In the usual telling, if Diarmuid were summoned as Saber, he would wield twin swords, becoming even more dangerous than his Lancer self with twin spears. He would lose the famed beauty mark's charm—but gain higher combat output and terrifying "first encounter" lethality, excelling at the opening kill even against mighty heroes.
But that was the normal scenario.
Beyond those two familiar configurations, there existed a third possibility—one far stronger:
A pairing of red spear and red sword.
In the Celtic accounts, Diarmuid chose his equipment based on the nature of the quest.
When death was on the line, he carried Moralltach and Gáe Dearg.
When danger was "ordinary," he carried Beagalltach—the lesser fury—and Gáe Buidhe.
A subtle distinction that reflected a warrior who understood his tools as deeply as his own body.
And among those combinations, the red spear and red sword together were unquestionably superior—Diarmuid's peak state.
Some stories even implied that he died because he didn't carry that set in his final battle; had he brought them, a mere monstrous boar could never have killed him.
Normally, such a configuration would be impossible under class constraints.
But Diarmuid had been granted rare fortune.
His Master, a being of extraordinary intellect—perhaps the reincarnation of his old lord—had altered parts of his Spirit Origin within the limited time available, and used the land of origin of Celtic myth, the Allen mountains and their leylines, as a bridge of destiny.
In doing so, he forced open a "new possibility" at the moment of summoning.
And thus, even while appearing under the Lancer class, Diarmuid had dragged the crimson blade down into this world alongside his spear.
It was something Diarmuid himself could scarcely believe.
And yet he could not help but marvel at it.
This was his once-in-a-lifetime peak—his strongest form.
In this state, even facing the legendary King Arthur, he believed with certainty:
He would not lose.
"Impressive," Saber said at last, voice steady amid the storm.
"I acknowledge it, Lancer. If we speak only of martial skill… you are above me."
"Especially in pure close-quarters combat—your spear and sword work are not inferior to Lancelot or Lamorak."
Arthur had pride, yes—kingly dignity and a knight's confidence.
But he wasn't blind to reality.
With red spear and red sword, Diarmuid's close-range skill surpassed the vast majority of heroes in history.
Diarmuid answered without hesitation.
"That's right. Don't take it the wrong way, Arthur."
"In this state, even my lord—Fionn, the greatest of heroes—would struggle to gain an advantage over me in a straight blade-to-blade fight."
It sounded arrogant.
But in the midst of fighting him, Saber couldn't refute it.
Against this Diarmuid, Arthur felt as though he were fighting Lancelot and Lamorak at the same time.
What a nightmare to deal with…
He couldn't help the thought.
…
"Red spear and red sword… damn, that's ridiculous."
High above, seated on a treetop like he owned the night, a blue-haired Caster watched the duel with open admiration, his earlier laziness nowhere to be found.
"I knew he was hiding something last time, but I didn't expect this."
"The strongest spear and the strongest sword—those two together aren't just 'addition.' That's a whole different monster."
There was even a hint of envy in his tone.
Other people got summoned in their best state, and here he was—stuck as a Caster.
Not that the class made him weak—he had his own special tricks, given certain circumstances—but it wasn't satisfying. It wasn't fun.
If he had his way, Cú Chulainn would rather be on the front line like Diarmuid: spear of death-thorns in one hand, a sword that split twilight in the other, cutting his way through a battlefield head-on.
Still, complaints aside, work was work.
He kept watching, searching for what was "off" about this war.
Arthur was male. Gilgamesh had a new look. Bluebeard had changed classes. Diarmuid had become a red spear–red sword aberration.
Everything was wrong.
So the question was—
Who was the real Caster this time?
Lancelot?
Yeah, right.
Even ignoring whether he had any compatibility with the class, that absurd Great Barrier on Mount Enzō was enough for Cú Chulainn to be certain:
Whoever built it was a magus of the Age of Gods—someone not inferior to his own teacher.
That meant the anomaly was obvious.
He had a strong feeling the unseen Caster was tied directly to whatever had warped this Holy Grail War.
Cú Chulainn's eyes shifted toward Mount Enzō, and he made a silent decision.
Once he confirmed things here, he would go investigate.
For now…
He'd keep watching. This fight had his hands itching.
…
On the eastern side of the forest, Ritsuka had arrived as well—but he didn't reveal himself. He stayed in the shadows, using familiars to observe the battle.
Watching Diarmuid grow more ferocious—so different from the version he remembered—left even him surprised.
It confirmed his earlier suspicion:
This Diarmuid was an enhanced model.
At this point, his build and performance were bordering on rule-breaking.
Beside Ritsuka, Gilles de Rais—who had fought Diarmuid before—could only marvel at the sheer power of these heroes of myth. And he realized something else as he watched:
Diarmuid hadn't been serious yesterday.
If he had fought like this then, even with Berserker enhancement and Morgan's reinforcement, Gilles would not have lasted long.
In hindsight, Diarmuid's early withdrawal yesterday almost felt like mercy.
And as Gilles kept watching, a grim thought surfaced—one he really didn't like.
Am I… the weakest participant in this war?
Looking at what these legends could do, he couldn't even pretend to compete. Skill, armaments, Noble Phantasms—how was a comparatively "modern" figure supposed to stand alongside monsters pulled from myth?
Arthur. Iskandar. Gilgamesh. Diarmuid. Cú Chulainn.
He couldn't beat any of them.
So maybe he really was the weakest.
…No.
There was still Assassin.
That guy was weaker.
"Master," Gilles asked carefully, feeling slightly better after remembering he wasn't at the very bottom, "do we enter?"
"Not yet."
Ritsuka's hand rested against his chin as he weighed the battlefield.
"We absolutely do not get dragged into Saber versus Lancer. Neither side has used their Noble Phantasms yet—they're still holding back."
"Our target tonight is only their Master."
"This time we don't need to force a result. The priority is to build goodwill, secure cooperation with Saber, and then use that alliance to deal with Archer."
"So we wait."
He spoke with calm precision.
"We don't know how many Servants are watching from the dark. We can't be the one who jumps first."
"Let them act. Then we move."
He glanced at Gilles.
"You understand, right? 'Adding flowers to brocade' isn't how you win loyalty."
"In war—and in politics—saving someone in the snow is what binds them."
"When the moment comes, the noble King Arthur will accept cooperation—whether to win, or to repay the debt."
"I understand," Gilles said, nodding.
The more he listened, the more he felt Ritsuka's competence exceeded anything he'd imagined.
So competent it almost seemed absurd.
As if—
As if Ritsuka had been born to be a Master.
And strangely, that thought made Gilles feel lighter.
On a battlefield like this, a brilliant commander was the single most valuable thing you could have.
And Gilles realized, with quiet relief:
This time, he had one.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 90)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 95)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League (Chapter 80)
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter70)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter70)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter50)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter60)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 30
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 30
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